13th of Goldleaf, 1641

We are some distance south of Hope's Watch. Morrow travels slowly now, and refuses (despite my constant urging)
to mount his horse. According to an old note I found in her saddlebags, her name is Wildgrass. Fitting for a beast
bred to roam Fallstone's rolling plains. 

My hope is that we stumble upon a caravan before we reach Stonebrook. 
The novelty of hard bread and dry pork has long since worn off.

15th of Goldleaf, 1641

Nothing to note today, or even yesterday. He will not use the saddle, but still leads her by hand. She is awfully 
temperamental- perhaps like her owner, in the past- yet loyal still. It's amazing she does not wander off in the 
night, given Morrow does not even bother tying off the reigns to a tree or rock

16th of Goldleaf, 1641

An apple tree! A great big lone apple tree here in the middle of absolutely nowhere! Joyous, prosperous day!
Wildgrass and I had a feast. I pray that Morrow was able to enjoy them when we weren't looking.

Neither Morrow nor Wildgrass are any good at conversation, yet I find myself drawn to talking anyway.

18th of Goldleaf, 1641

Faith preserve me, I am out of apples. I gave the last half-dozen to Wildgrass. She continues to follow
Morrow even though he has let go of leading her entirely. I cannot imagine what inspires such blind
loyalty- especially to a companion that cannot feed nor even ride. But I shall remain grateful for her 
presence, and for carrying our (mostly mine, but it feels rude to claim another man's horse for his own)
belongings.

20th of Goldleaf, 1641

No caravans, and no Stonebrook in sight. I rested for an entire day yesterday and caught up to Morrow.
He walks only in a straight line some days, forgoing paths and cobbled roads.

22nd of Goldleaf, 1641

Morrow carried the saddlebags today. I tried to share the load, but he would not budge: a long hammer,
some korami polearm, a sword- and our rations. Wildgrass continued to wander along behind us, but I 
saw no need for her saddle. I left it beneath a tree with the reigns piled atop.

23rd of Goldleaf, 1641

I awoke to find our trio was now only two. Wildgrass probably wandered off while I was asleep. I curse
my age and lack of vigilance and care. I cannot imagine what Morrow thinks; all he does is walk and 
kill. The tally I have left on his breastplate is at forty-eight now.

Can a man who cannot grieve know grief?
Can a man who cannot feel know loss?

Wildgrass, now blessed to wander and roam for the rest of her days, must feel something for her rider.
He who is cursed to wander and roam.

I still do not know what he wants.
What does he want?
What did he want?
Who was he?